


Throwing Underhanded

by Domimagetrix



Series: Gentili e Sculacciati [6]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Adult Language, Adult Themes, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood, Crimes & Criminals, Explosions, Mobster AU, Other, Unsafe driving, Wounds, frank discussions about sex, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 04:50:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13069500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domimagetrix/pseuds/Domimagetrix
Summary: Razwan begins forging an unlikely friendship with one of her objectives, and things take a turn for the dangerous. Exiting the scene with a wounded Pict in tow, she finds help in the form of someone who's aided many an adventurer in their day.Both of them try his patience.





	Throwing Underhanded

What struck me first was the fullness of his long hair, and for a moment I thought him another Persian.

I inhaled to hail him and stopped. Streetlight illuminated a few portions of that hair, and the dark brown caught in it was a shade too light. His features were too narrow. The blue eyes - _eye_ \- that greeted me as he looked up glared with youthful, rebellious attitude. The dark-tinted bag beneath conflicted with that youth. His other eye hid beneath a black patch, one detailed with Sliske’s mask in metallic embroidery.

The detail glittered as he opened a flip-top lighter, and he lit the nail held in his mouth.

Pin. Tick _._ The tertiary goal should the Wanderer and Sliske prove impossible to persuade.

The other World Guardian looked drained, as though something beyond obvious malnutrition had exacted too high a toll on him. He was gaunt, sharp features exaggerated by the trim beard along his jawline. A moment’s extra light as he pulled on the cigarette highlighted a face worn either with time or stress. Or both.

His lighter _snicked_ shut and he pocketed it.

I reached for a cigarette of my own and planted it between my lips, speaking around the filter. “Hey. Got a light?”

The blue eye met mine and didn’t look away. “Nope.”

_Fuck you, too._

I liked him immediately.

Rolling my eyes, I dug around and pulled a pack of matches from my pocket, striking twice and cursing as chilled air moved just enough to threaten the flame. Lighting my own nail, I returned the matches to the pocket and eyed the small man - he _was_ petite, shorter even than I was - while tossing the defunct match to wet pavement. “Sliske giving you the business end?”

Pict’s reaction gave several things away at once: the “business end” as he understood it wasn’t the one I’d suggested, he _was_ getting his version of it, and the unhealthy interest spoke to his getting it in quantity. Approaching my tertiary objective had included orders to befriend in lieu of my usual methods, and I now understood the reasoning.

I’d also panicked him. The flicker of interest at the mention of Sliske had been brief, rapidly supplanted by fear.

_Shit._

His footing shifted for flight, and I leaned back against the wall in attempt to look casual. I waved a hand at him carelessly and hoped the flicker of rebellious attitude I’d spied was true to his nature. “I’m told it’s a nice business end. You get tired of it, you can tag me in.”

_C’mon, Pict. Ease up._

Wet grit ground beneath one of his shoes as he turned it, then swiveled it back. Still tense with the urge to flee, he spoke cautiously. “He’s got enough of the business end to go around.”

I aimed what I hoped was a snarky grin at him. “Can’t handle it all by yourself?”

Some of the tension in Pict bled off, blue eye narrowing at me. “Is that a fucking insult?”

Nodding, I flicked the ash off my nail and drew, smoke billowing from my nose and mouth as I spoke. “Match-lit cigarettes taste like shit.”

A second passed in silence.

His thin voice was still defensive, but he took the bait. “Wouldn’t know. Guess we’ll have to defer to your experience. I’m more interested in his other business end.”

I almost dropped my smoke. “Motherf-”

“-Sliske-fucker.” He waved his cigarette hand and the smoke trail hung prettily in the chilled air. “Or ‘Sliske-fucked,’ if you’re a stickler for accuracy.” The eye regarded me sternly. “And you got a smart-ass mouth considering how you got your fucking job.”

_Prick._

Then again, the Wanderer had finally agreed to hire me only after a lengthy interview, one which included throwing me across his desk before bending me over it.

Pict was also an _astute_ prick. Much as he was a hair’s breadth away from earning a knife to the throat, I didn’t dislike him.

“I had the good taste to get thrown around the room first.” My cigarette hand made a sweeping gesture to illustrate.

Thin voice was matched by a thin - but genuine - smile. “There’s a word for that. ‘Foreplay.’”

He was right enough about that.

_Stop being such a likeable prick._

I inhaled to speak. A bomb interrupted me.

The blast threw us both to the opposite wall.

 

………..

 

Blood from my temple trickled into my eye and I kept swiping at it, a stinging numbness that felt both superficial and serious thrumming with each pass of my hand. Rubble around me stank like hot metal and chlorine. I scrabbled awkwardly to my feet, leaning against a partially-destroyed wall.

_Fuck. Don’t you dare die on me, you lighter-hoarding little shit._

I stumbled forward, foot catching on a brick and nearly sending me back to the ground. I blinked and swore.

“ _Shitfuck…_ Pict!”

Nothing.

Regretting the heels, I bent and felt before stepping through the debris toward Pict’s crumpled form and knelt. “Pict?”

No sound, but blood oozed from beneath the mass of brick dust-coated hair.

_You’re not allowed to die. Zamorak’ll put the screws to me if you do._

It occurred to me that I didn’t want him to die, either.

I recalled Wise-Tail once muttering something as he’d patched me up post-job. _“You don’t move them if you aren’t sure about the extent of their injuries. The only exception being positioning for the Breath of Life. If they’re not breathing, their other injuries don’t matter. You don’t move them otherwise or you risk fucking up any chance a doctor has of saving them.”_

Voices I didn’t recognize spoke in excited tones from beyond the broken wall, somewhere deeper inside the Gray Ring.

_I can’t leave him here. If someone’s shelling Sliske, this little fucker’s going to be high priority._

Taking as much care to avoid jostling him as I could, I wedged a hand under his arm and another behind his knees, sliding my shoulder up the wall and lifting. He was light for someone close to my size, but I wasn’t built to carry entire adult people and that went double for doing it while wobbling in high heels through bomb wreckage. I weaved gracelessly down the alley and navigated the parking lot to a rusted Ford. My arms had begun shaking with the effort of carrying my tertiary objective bridal-style and I dumped him over the car door into the passenger seat, cursing and arranging him so his hair covered the blood weeping down his face.

He slurred something, eyes still closed, and I kept my voice gentle. “Just… fuck. Don’t be seriously fucked up and try to look drunk, damn it.”

Pict muttered something else while I coughed brick dust out of my lungs and fired up the engine. It sounded suspiciously like Sliske’s name. Wheeling us out of the lot, I braked at the exit and thought as I spoke. “No. Sliske isn’t a medic. We need a medic and someone who won’t ask too many questions.”

He muttered something about whiskey and I nodded. “Me, too, Pict.”

Hopefully Wahisietel would part with some.

I turned the wheel and headed away from oncoming sirens.

 

………..

 

San Tristen bordered An Rellghan on the southeastern side, and Wise-Tail’s apartment sat perfectly on the division between the two. I parked nearby and opened the passenger door, arm wrapped around a semi-conscious Pict, and wobbled up to the door buzzer. It droned waspishly as I held it down.

Footsteps and a thoroughly patience-bereft voice approached from behind the door. “Christing fuck, Finley, I told you to call me from the goddamned bar-”

The door opened, revealing a somewhat grizzled man whose good looks had matured rather than abandoned him with age. His one-sided lecture to “Finley” came to an abrupt halt as he assessed the pair of us.

He stood aside and jerked a thumb toward the living area behind him. “In. Now.”

Pict was still largely unconscious and unhelpful, but we made our way in as the door was closed behind us. I limped-struggled-dragged him to the couch and deposited him there as gently as I could. Turning, I watched as Wise dragged an old military bag from beneath a table and pulled the draw-tie loose, hand rifling with urgent purpose through its contents.

“Sit down.” His hazel eyes lifted from the bag to pin me. “I don’t want to hear you wax hardass about how you’re fine, either. That’s fresh blood and I can see the abrasion on your temple. Probably a fucking miracle you didn’t wrap the front of that rust bucket of yours around a lamppost. _Sit.”_

I sat at the far end of the couch, watching as Wise conducted his examination. The stethoscope made its rounds beneath Pict’s shirt, then slightly gnarled fingers took the pulse at his wrist.

I first took Wahisietel’s businesslike reporting to be aimed at me, but realized he must’ve been speaking for his own benefit. There was something practiced and almost ritualistic about it.

“Subject is underfed, and has been for some time. Underweight. Pale, although this could be due to blood loss or the onset of shock. Smells of alcohol. Spider angiomata appear to be few, but malnutrition coupled with alcohol could be contributing to cirrhosis. No yellowing of the skin thus far. Good. _Fuck,_ Sliske, what are you doing to him?”

I jumped at the last, looking from Pict to Wise. “How did you know about Sliske?”

He cast a momentary glance at me with narrowed, hazel eyes before returning to his patient. “Eyepatch.”

 _Oh._ I felt a bit slow.

He was less abrupt as he spoke again, and there was discomfort in his tone. “I also happened upon them when Sliske was revealing his… interest to this man.” The abruptness returned as quickly. “I didn’t stay to witness the rest.”

I wondered idly what he’d seen as he went on with his formal report to nobody in particular.

“Bruising around the wrists suggests the subject was at one point restrained.” He paused. “More than once. The bruises are layered and some have faded with age.”

He was silent again. He undid a few of Pict’s shirt buttons and snarled something I didn’t understand before continuing. “More bruising around the neck below a fitted collar, patterning very clearly indicating a hand. Not a human one. Some capillary damage and minor puncture marks. _For fuck’s sake, Sliske…”_

Wise glared an accusation up at me and I stiffened, but he looked away and lifted Pict’s hair from his temple. “Bleeding. Looks superficial. No stitching required, and the swelling appears minimal.”

He lifted Pict’s eye patch.

I’d considered myself fairly accomplished in the art of profanity until Wahisietel spoke again.

“Fuckwitted, cocked-up, ass-brained _toyed with transplanting with no goddamned knowledge! None! It’s a fucking miracle this wasn’t rejected. I’ve shat things with more cognitive ability than you devoted to this botch job, Sliske-”_

I coughed quietly, regretting the hot pulse of headache that answered it.

Wise dipped a hand into the bag at his feet and withdrew gauze and a bottle of something clear, gingerly wiping blood from Pict’s face. “Tell me what happened.”

I spoke while he worked, omitting the details of Pict’s and my conversation and sticking to the bomb and what I’d done afterward.

Wahisietel arranged Pict more comfortably on the couch and moved to me, more gauze and the bottle in hand. I winced as cold cloth brushed the wound at my temple. He bandaged the wound and returned everything to his satchel. “There’s a spare bedroom down the hall. Both of you will remain here until I’ve determined you’re in adequate condition to leave.” Grim eyes caught and held mine. “You’re a goddamned fool to work for Sliske.”

He toed his satchel under the couch and leaned forward, elbows on knees and fingers interlaced. “Then again, maybe you don’t realize what you’ve gotten yourself into. How much do you remember of Gielinor?”

 

………..

 

Three days passed in Wahisietel’s house. I phoned the Gray Ring the following morning, and Sliske himself assured me the situation was “under control” after bombarding me with questions about our whereabouts, Pict’s condition, and my own state.

The first questions were terse, the second more so and coupled with genuine concern.

The last were still concerned, although there was something less warm and more greed-infused in his tone when he asked if I was injured. Satisfied at my answers, Sliske spoke twice more before hanging up.

“I fault you for nothing, pet. Stay with him until he’s fit enough to return. Oh, and I’ll pass the news of your good health to my hiring manager, of course. Wouldn’t want him to worry.”

I wondered at the last of it, but agreed. Sliske spoke again and the thread of humor that normally accompanied his words was gone.

“Wahisietel is less selective about the company he keeps. No doubt he’ll shoo away his associates while you’re in his care, but be wary of anyone if they do show up.” A pause. _“And avoid Finley Bannbreker at all costs.”_

I agreed again and hung up, curious.

Finley. Hadn’t Wise-Tail been muttering something about a Finley when he’d opened the door to us?

 

………..

 

Pict awoke properly on the second day of our stay, swearing bitterly and asking for whiskey. Wise and I had hidden the former medic's supply of alcohol within the first hour of battling the wounded man’s semi-delirious, yet wholly determined efforts to open the bottle.

We left the afternoon of the third day, thanking Wahisietel on our way out.

Well, _I_ thanked him.

Pict was drunk.


End file.
